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| "AMERICA'S FUNNIEST HUMOR"TM
SHOWCASE
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February/March 2011
Humor Writing Contest Results! |
Congratulations to
all Honorable Mentions in our
February/March 2011 Humor
Writing Contest!
(Listed alphabetically by author.)
The Morgue Story
By Marly Allen, Michigan
As a young Air Force cop, I was working hospital security one night when
I got called to the emergency room to help two male nursing techs take a
body down to the morgue. A man had been in a car accident and gone
through the windshield. The body was covered up, of course, but the
blood from the facial wounds came right through the sheet. They told me
the man had hit the pavement so hard, his jaw had disconnected and he
didn’t really have a nose left.
All we had to do was take the stretcher down to the basement, open the
morgue, put the body in the cooler, and sign a report for the
pathologist. I had been to the morgue before, in fact, the pathologist
had let me watch a partial autopsy there. But this was a bit different;
it was three o’clock in the morning, there was nobody around, and all
three of us were only about nineteen years old.
There were also some things we didn’t know about bodies, such as the
fact that they can make noise when gas starts moving around inside. This
one kept making grunting sounds every time we went over a little bump. I
am convinced to this day that the elevator had a wicked sense of humor,
because it waited until after the doors had closed and we couldn’t
possibly get out. Then it gave a huge lurch, the body sat up on the
gurney, and the sheet fell off its face. The broken jaw dropped almost
to its bellybutton, the eyes popped open and stared at us, and it
emitted this horrible groan.
We totally lost it, of course. When we figured out we couldn’t break the
door down, the guys started screaming at me, “You’re the cop, shoot it!”
And I screamed back, “You’re the medical people and you’re stronger than
I am! Hit it! Hit it!”
Fortunately, it laid down by itself and the door opened, because I don’t
like to think what we would have done if it hadn’t. We tumbled out of
that elevator, and stood gasping for breath in the hallway, trying not
to lose our dinners. It was a good thing the elevator had an automatic
door stop, because at that point, we would have let that sucker go to
whichever floor it wanted to go.
We seriously debated going back to the emergency room, (by a different
route) and getting somebody else to put it in the cooler, but we all
knew we’d never be able to live it down if we did. So, we covered the
body back up and strapped the chest down with a gurney belt, (something
that should have been done before we left.)
Then I pulled out my billy club, unlocked the morgue door and reached
inside to turn on the light. As long as I kept telling myself that I had
a gun, and that I was responsible for the safety of the entire hospital,
I was okay, and the boys seemed to gather their bravery from listening
to me.
So, one of them opened the cooler door while I stood by ready to club
any stray zombies who might be lurking inside, the other one pushed the
gurney inside, then we all ran like hell and got halfway down the
hallway before one of us shouted, “Wait, we gotta lock the door and
somebody has to sign the certificate!”
I told them, “I unlocked the door and had to turn on the light! You get
in there and sign that paper!” They tried to tell me, “You’re the cop,
you have the gun, and you’re supposed to be protecting us!” “Don’t you
give me crap about protecting you! We’re not talking about an armed
criminal here!”
Finally I said, “Okay, okay. Wait a minute. We will all go back, we’ll
all sign the paper, and we will all lock the door, agreed?” “Agreed.” So
we walked back in a tight pack, like something out of the Three Stooges,
did what we had to do, then ran all the way back to the emergency room,
using the stairs.
I know we forgot to turn the lights off, because the pathologist bawled
me out for leaving them on all weekend when he saw me in the cafeteria
on Monday. He must be a pretty old man by now, and my bet is; he’s still
laughing about that story.
www.makingmyownwork.blogspot.com
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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 I
Hate My Husband's Chewed Gum
By Susan Antony, South Carolina
I need to vent. Since I married my husband and part-time nemesis
twelve long years ago, I have frequently found his chewed gum stuck in
various places around the house; for example: on the bottom of my dinner
plates, on the margarine container lid, on the bathroom sink, on the
napkin holder, on magazines in the living room, and on the kitchen
counter on a carefully laid out paper towel, which for some reason, it
remained all night. Not only am I grossed out by this unsanitary
behavior, I am totally baffled and as to why a grown man feels the need
to save his chewed gum, especially since he never seems to re-chew it
anyway.
In downtown Charleston, we have a wooden telephone pole where everyone,
tourists included, stick their used gum—some kind of pop culture art
that personally makes me gag—but my husband never thinks to stick his
gum there, he walks by the pole as if its invisible, and then sticks his
chewed gum to a spoon on the dinner table instead.
I realize he grew up under Communist rule in Bulgaria, and luxuries such
as gum may have been scarce, but I refuse to give him a pass. He has
been in America for over ten years now, and gum is abundant—and cheap.
You can buy it in almost every store and gas station. There is no gum
shortage here.
Well, what happened last week, at my son’s basketball practice was the
straw that broke the camel’s back.
My husband called me on the phone sounding frantic. “I’m out of peanuts.
You must go to the store and buy some peanuts. I will pick up our son
from daycare, but I have to have peanuts so I can give him a snack
before practice, he won’t eat bread in the car.” he said. (My husband is
big on nutrition. He believes all you need to survive is peanuts and
bread.) Anyway, I met him and son outside the gym and gave him the
bottle of peanuts he requested. The two of them sat in his trunk and
munched away while I waited outside. A few minutes later, my husband
passed me the half-full bottle and the lid and said, “Here hold on to
this we are going in to play basketball.”
When I went to put the lid on the jar, much to my dismay, I saw his
chewed gum, folded over the threads. I stared the chewed gum in
disbelief, and disgust, unable to fathom what in the hell possessed him
to do such a thing. I glared at him and said, “Why on earth would you do
something so gross?”
He ignored me and walked away as if I was being stupid.
Swearing under my breath, I placed the gum in a piece of scrap paper,
and used a toothpick I had in my purse to remove the remains from the
threads at the top of the jar, and then I saved the gum in the ashtray.
After we got home, still grossed out, and determined to teach him a
lesson, I found a more appropriate place to save his gum, on the inside
of the crotch of a pair of his tightie-whites. Let him chew on that for
a while! Bon Appétit!
http://blastfromthepast.blogspot.com
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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The
Hammy
By Dan Burt, Alabama
This weekend is the annual Burt family ham decorating and sculpting
contest, otherwise known as The Hammy. I don't like to brag, but I won
the 2010 Hammy Award last year. I carved up my ham to look like Curly
from the Three Stooges, but with a mohawk (hamhawk?). I think what gave
the sculpture added panache were the two small cranberries I used for
eyes.
My youngest son, Otto, made his ham into a pig, which I thought was
cruel at first, but I eventually learned to appreciate the meta-style of
his design. I questioned him about the theme and concept of his project,
but he just made snorting noises and laughed.
My wife, Donna, created a game with her ham, inserting toothpicks into
the meat until it looked like Pinhead from the Hellraiser movies. We
hung the ham on the fireplace mantle like a stocking and took turns
tossing pineapple rings at the toothpicks, scoring points with each
successful “stick.” Donna won the ring toss ham game and was rewarded
with an impromptu prize the rest of us agreed on: she got to clean up
the mess. But, honestly, we let her win.
My teenage son, Dustan, submitted an entry that looked just like a
half-eaten ham, which, by the way, it was. He just sat there, eating ham
and playing video games while the rest of the family competed vigorously
to win the succulent Hammy Award. He still finished second with little
effort because of his natural ham skills.
We always buy way too much ham every year for the contest, so we end up
making a charitable donation of the leftovers to our dog, Buddy. Last
year, Buddy couldn't even finish it and we caught him trying to give
some away to a couple of stray cats. We admonished him, confiscated the
meat, and took the rest to the nursing home to give to Grandpa. Grandpa
always appreciates the very little kindness we show him, unlike our
spoiled mutt and what’s-his-name we keep locked in the dungeon beneath
our detached garage.
I’m really looking forward to this year’s ham contest. Don’t tell the
rest of my family, but I think I have another winning idea this year.
I’m going to drape the meat with Lady Gaga voodoo dolls. And, as an
added twist, the Lady Gaga voodoo dolls will be wearing little ham
dresses.
www.CaptainCanard.com/
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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Cherchez
la Maison! (or House Hunters International)
By Cy Creed,
New York
Upon deciding they had way too much money and life in their English
mansion was getting monotonous, Brits Peter and Constance decided to
move to the bowels of Mongolia. The day in and day out of servants at
their beck and call was tiresome. All they had to do was summon Edward
or James and their every need was taken care of. If Peter didn’t feel
like even leaning to pick up his sandwich, Edward was there in a
heartbeat feeding it to him. Or if Constance had had just enough of
raising their children, James was at her service, as well. All in all,
life had become mundane.
Constance was, of course, a second wife and thirty years Peter’s junior.
This happens when men reach financial security and begin to think with
an organ other than their brains. Wife number one looked every bit her
fifty some years while Constance, with her perky breasts and teased
hair, was the perfect accompaniment to Peter’s stout strut and balding
head. She mumbled and he was hard of hearing. It was a match made in
heaven. The only thing missing was a remote pile of rubbish they could
call home.
In Mongolia, they would be able to find the true meaning in life amid
common folk and be pulled back to ancestral times. They would buy a 400
B.C. house and spend the rest of their lives restoring same, giving up
all creature comforts they had known.
“Peetah, come quick. I believe I’ve found a toilet in this ancient
ruin.”
“Why, yes, my darling Connie. That is stunning. How brilliant of you.
This is indeed going to make a lovely home. Let’s toast to our
astounding luck and fortune.”
Rubble surrounds them as they silently try their best to imagine how
this “find” will someday turn into something livable, but as Brits, they
are extremely optimistic and find the good in the smallest of details.
“Why, Peetah. Isn’t this absolutely charming? I found an old rustic can,
probably from the era of Alexander the Great.”
“Ah, you are indeed brilliant. A true archaeological find. I do believe
I can make out the words “Pabst Blue Ribbon” on one side. This is the
beginning of many a discovery, I’m sure. Once again, let’s toast to our
new lives together.”
Walking the thousand steps up to the first terrace, they had magnificent
views of the land. Mountain after mountain with valleys laden in rice
paddies, it truly was a majestic view. Eighty year old women, wrinkled
from years of toiling in the hot summer sun and the equally brutal
winters seemed to gesticulate upon noticing they were being watched.
“Peetah, it looks like those peasant women gave me the middle finger.”
“Oh, don’t be silly, mon petit chou chou. They are grateful we’re here
to give them jobs. When they’re done in the rice paddies, I’ll talk to
them about hauling some boulders up to the terrace.
“Oh, Peetah. Isn’t it adorable? I see one of the woman squatting. I do
believe she is giving birth.”
“How charming, my little love poodle. Why, this is like our very own
National Geographic!”
Entering the “home”, Constance pointed out there was no kitchen, much
less indoor plumbing. The toilet she had seen outside earlier was in
fact the only semblance of a commode anywhere. There wasn’t even a
floor, yet they felt the $1 million asking price was a steal.
“You could never find this kind of character in London,” Peter declared.
“No, indeed, Peetah. The rustic beauty is indeed charming. Oh, watch out
for that open cesspool, darling.”
“Good eye, my pet. Seems this gurgling, churning green slime will have
to be taken care of I imagine before we move in.”
“Just part of the charm, Peetah.”
American house hunters, on the other hand, are a different breed
altogether. They find it appalling if their $60,000 budget doesn’t
include maids quarters, hot tubs, and helicopter landing pads. One
recent episode showed a very disgruntled couple who loved every aspect
of this $40,000 house with the exception of the bathroom faucets.
“Lloyd, I do feel we can do better elsewhere. We’ve seen 857 homes so
far. What’s one more? There is no way I can live with faucets that looks
like that.”
“Agreed, Cynthia. What would prompt people to put in that style of
faucet is beyond me. Such a shame. Let‘s keep on looking.”
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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Me
vs. Online Dating
By Matt D.,
Maryland
(Last name withheld by request.)
Being a man in his early 20’s who has had his share of difficulties
seducing the ladies, turning to online dating seemed like a natural
progression. Unfortunately, not being a Romeo in the real world
translates to the electronic world as well. It is time the world learned
the following lessons, before you get your hopes up as well.
LESSON 1: Not much matters besides pictures.
One of the more unfortunate truths. Why? Everybody’s profile says
absolutely nothing about them as a person.
“Hi! I’m a female that wants to date a boy. I have some sort of career.
I like going out and having fun, and staying in and having fun.
Basically I want the kind of guy that everyone wants, and exists, but as
a woman I’m forced to blow off this amazing man when I meet him!”
Ok, my bitterness had a hand in embellishing one of those sentences.
Still, when reading a profile, the goods are in the matter of fact
questions: do you smoke, do you drink, what is your age and height.
(I will make it known my profiles were no better).
Thus, in the end, the picture is going to dictate whether I want to talk
more. A good picture won’t save you if you are boring, but it will at
least spark my attention. Which really isn’t much different than the
bar. Crap. Wasn’t internet dating supposed to save us from the bar?
LESSON 2: Don’t freely offer up contact info.
A lot of people use the same instant messaging screen name as their
online dating name. So, eventually the “smarter” ones will catch on
anyway. But don’t ever give anyone else the hint. The beauty of the
e-mail as the conversation starter is you can do your reconnaissance
before replying (or ignoring) appropriately. However, when that instant
message (IM) window pops up with a new name, you better act FAST. Here
is a conversation held with my friend Eric when I was in such a
situation:
Me: Some girl is talking to me, and I don't know who she is yet. I can't
find her profile!
Eric: How old is she?
Me: I haven't asked! If I could find her damn profile, I would know!
Eric: She could be 19.
Me: She could be younger!
Eric: Dammit man, block her.
Eric: She’s probably an incoming freshman.
Me: Dammit I need to see her profile NOW
Eric: ABORT!
From here, obviously you like talking, or not. If so, great! Then you
can deal with all the “when should we talk again?” strategies. If not,
watch out. You may have to ask yourself, “Do I feel comfortable ignoring
someone?”
I tried to indicate to my new admirer that the interest was not mutual.
I tried the equivocal “I’m really busy, I will talk to you when I get a
chance”; the straightforward “I’m sorry, but I’m just not interested”,
even pulling out the “I’m seeing someone” when all else failed. She
didn’t get the hint.
*Note to my readers: if someone blocks or unfriends you, it’s for a
reason. Don’t change screen names and try and keep talking. I can’t
emphasize that enough. “Stalker” is not a term of endearment for a
reason.
LESSON 3: Just because it's you using online dating, doesn’t mean your
experiences will be any different.
Here is a bold, overarching truth: even online, guys are still guys and
girls are still girls.
There was one girl I found and liked a lot! Great picture, and she even
broke my aforementioned stereotype of a boring profile. I emailed her,
she emailed back, the process was repeated, and the next thing I know I
had a series of digits that I could type in succession to achieve
telephonic communications with my newfound temptress.
The end of said conversation went like this:
Me: Would you like to go out sometime?
Temptress: Yeah, that sounds great! How about I give you a call in a
couple of days to arrange things?
I never heard from her again. Online dating sucks.
Those of you that are astute will realize I came to my ultimatum from
limited experience. Yes, you would be correct. But baby, don’t forget:
I’m always right.
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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Little
Dog’s Big Appetite!
By
Jeannette George,
Texas
I can still remember the first time I saw
a dog kennel in a shopping center. I didn’t know cats and dogs were
purchased from breeders and bargainers unto the choice of buyers. In
those days of my childhood, you did not buy a dog, they came to your
doorstep and after searching the neighborhood for the rightful owner,
the doorstep dog became a family member.
The same principle applied to cats who
came with winning wails to your back door and promptly had kittens in
the box of coat hangers you had in the garage. So, as a child, I had a
dog, cats, a parakeet, goldfish and one armadillo who never knew where
he was, but diligently dug up my mother’s rose bushes.
One day I was given a turtle with my name on his or her shell (it is
peculiar to the nature of turtles and armadillos that their gender is
seldom known except by the said turtle or armadillo). This turtle, with
my name on the shell, was accepted and added to my collection! I
delighted in the turtle with my name on its shell and gave it my full
attention as it claimed the freedom of my back yard with its slow
process from back steps to my mother’s carefully tended flower bed.
On one such leisurely exercise, my Little Dog spotted the turtle for the
first time and nosed its process to the flower bed until, in one eager
gulp, Little Dog swallowed my turtle – with my name on its shell! I
screamed at the Little Dog, yelled for my mother and expressed the full
range of tragic drama appropriate to the horror of seeing the turtle
with my name on its shell gulped down by my dog’s limitless appetite.
My mother came to the back door, my
neighbor squinted at me from her azalea bushes and lifted the watering
hose as if it might be useful to the need for heroics. Turtle was gulped
down without a trace. The worse that could happen to a small,
slow-traveling creature had happened while the Little Dog-villain licked
from his lips what may have been the stain of my name written on the
disappearing shell.
We thought it was over for the turtle – when suddenly the dog expressed
a reaction never before experienced by man or beast. His whole body
spasmed with the severity of the occasion, the look on his face conveyed
more horror than the scariest movie ever filmed, his mouth became a
cylinder of convulsions beyond adequate expression and then – in the
midst of the horrific scene played out before my tearful eyes – out came
turtle from the mouth of the dog – and turtle, unaffected by the
experience, strolled from the dog’s quivering lips and resumed his
morning walk without changing pace or perspective.
My mother, with a broom in hand, my
neighbor with the watering hose and I watched with stunned amazement
while puppy’s face echoed the convulsions that had just lurched through
his body. Turtle was unconcerned, undeterred and unchanged. To turtle,
the experience had been just one of life’s small adventures; an
unexpected sojourn through a small, unlighted tunnel had been nothing
but a hiccup in the dialogue of life.
It was needless to spank the dog. The circumstance had been sufficient
punishment. My mother and my neighbor went back to their interrupted
duties and, as for me, I learned two things; one, it is hard to hug a
turtle, but the gesture is an appropriate compliment to any creature’s
amiable processing through crises. The other learning was about the
durability of a turtle – or perhaps one even so vulnerable as a human
being wearing the signature of the Owner on his or her shell.
Life will certainly have its suddenesses,
but can offer a way out from under if we stay undeterred, on course and
assured. If, perhaps the world has you, this day, in a dark tunnel of
evil’s contortions, hold to your faith and to its step and the
significance of the Signature on your shell; there is a possibility that
evil under the circumstances may be just as glad to get you out as your
are.
www.jeannettecliftgeorge.com
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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Break-Up
Hair
By
Siobhan Graham,
Sydney
This is a shout-out to the “break-up”
hair! I bet you’re sitting there thinking to yourself, what is this
mysterious break-up hair she is speaking of...? We’ll as every young
relationship ignites and burns, it also simmers and is doused by the
unforgiving true-self of your former lover.
For centuries women have been subject to
the metaphorical shank-in-the-chest feeling of an unreciprocated love;
the moment their significant other renders them unworthy of their love
and informs them so in two syllables (Either via text message or for the
more developed human soul: at the local coffee shop) “You’re Dropped”.
And so, these undignified individuals on
the receiving end of this ego-bashing decide it is time for a change.
Clearly your lover lost interest over superficial reasons such as...my
hair! That is it. If I vainly bleach, shave, chop, feather and style my
hair into perfection my ex-lover will come to the realization that I am
a Goddess and in turn swoop me back into his arms.
The answer was right in front of my eyes,
staring back at me in my reflection. It was obviously those few stray
split ends that instigated his detest for me! After all, men are
physical creatures and despite their oblivion to my previous hair-cuts
and outfit transformations he will regard my Post-break-up hair with a
sparkle of wonder and awe.
With my new hairstyle my ex-lover will
observe that I am independent and have moved on from our petty
‘relationship’, his envy of my indifference to the fact that I have just
had my heart ripped from my chest and stomped on repeatedly will drive
him crazy and henceforth, he will have no choice but to chase me once
again!
And so, it is time for your reality check...
No amount of peroxide can bleach the dignity back into your hair, just
as much as you cannot cut ‘the-ex’ out of your hair in the form of a
trendy pixie cut. The reason he broke up with you was not because of his
newfound dissatisfaction with your split ends or ‘dull-and-lifeless’
colour.
So please, do everyone a favour, we can
see beneath the facade, put down the bottle of Live 28 washes and move
on with your life. If you want to change perhaps you can join a 12-step
program on how to deal with your resulting daddy issues of neediness and
dependence and find yourself another boyfriend to verify your own
self-worth.
http://bitsandbabbles25.blogspot.com
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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Locked
In My FreeCell
By
Tom Harris, Ohio
I'm beginning to feel like a mad
scientist. Not the mad scientist in the middle of the movie when he has
been overtaken by his madness and is intent on destroying the world. Of
course, the cinematic mad scientist, besides being mad, is brilliant
enough to wreak havoc all over the world. That he never destroys more
than himself and his laboratory is because the hero is even more
brilliant. You know the hero will triumph because he is younger, sexier,
has better hair and doesn't have a sinister foreign accent. There is no
dashing young hero in my movie. In my movie the world is made safe by my
ineptitude.
But none of that matters, at least right now. My madness has nothing to
do with world domination. And at this moment I'm as sane as the next man
teetering on the edge of insanity. I am the scientist when he is still
aware that his mind is a battleground and that he's going to lose the
battle if the cavalry doesn't show up soon.
Late at night, in a corner of his laboratory lit by an anemic candle,
the mad scientist writes furiously in a notebook. His handwriting is
barely legible and, for the convenience of the movie audience, he reads
the words as he writes. Given the thickness of his accent, his reading
is of minimum value to the audience. But those who are paying attention
catch enough to know that an idea - an idea that he can rule the world,
that every human can be a slave to his needs and desires - is quickly
seducing his mind. He wants to regain control of his mind, to put it to
work making the world a better place. His mind, however, has a mind of
its own, which it willingly cedes it to the evil notions that came
disguised as alluring beauties.
So, here I sit at the computer, which happens to be in a dark corner of
the house, the only light coming from a small reading lamp. And, in
what's left of my sinister Pittsburgh accent, I read the words as I type
them illegibly into a Windows document.
"FreeCell is seducing me," I say as I type. "I don't want to play
FreeCell; I don't enjoy playing FreeCell. But it won't let me go. I come
to the computer each day hoping to produce something worthwhile. But the
moment I sit down, I can feel FreeCell approach me. 'Go ahead, just one
game,' FreeCell, a clever seductress, says softly. 'No, I can't. I have
work to do.' 'Work, schmerk,' she says. 'Come on, just a quick game. One
game isn't going to hurt.'
"It will hurt," I continue scrawling into the computer. "I know it will
hurt, no matter what she says. One game of FreeCell will lead to
another, and another and another. Fifty-three games later, I’ll still
not be satisfied. I'll play FreeCell through lunch and late into the
afternoon. Why am I so weak? Why can’t I resist the urge to play this
game? Why can't I stop once I start?"
I sit hunched over the keyboard, hoping to find the strength, the
tenacity, the determination I need to subdue the temptress FreeCell.
"Wait a minute," I say to myself, "that might work. That could be the
answer. Just maybe it will free me."
I'm boiling over with excitement and anticipation for a new and better
life, a FreeCell-free life. The thoughts are coming so quickly. I can
master this madness; I know I can. But in the euphoria, my mind becomes
a hectic jumble as it devises a multitude of ways to slay the monster
lurking in the Games menu. I need to get control; I must calm myself and
think more clearly. Everything is moving too fast; my blood pressure is
rising; my head is throbbing.
"There, there," FreeCell says. "Just play a game or two. It will help
you relax and clear your mind."
"You're right," I say. "But, you know this is the last time."
"Of course. We'll never see each other after today."
"You say that as if you don't believe me."
"I have faith in you," she says coyly.
"What's that mean?"
"You figure it out."
"I will," I tell her. "Just as soon as I finish this game."
She smiles, pulls up a chair and makes herself comfortable.
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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The
Sudden Urge
By
Tom Harris, Ohio
A half mile beyond the rest area I had
opted not to stop at, the smoothly flowing traffic that was sweeping me
along found itself behind a procession of cars, vans, SUVs, pickup
trucks, semis and busses that had stopped proceeding. Three lanes of
idling, pollution belching vehicles stretched to the horizon and beyond.
The moment my bladder realized we were going to be there a while, it
prepared a plan of action. It was a simple plan: collect any and all
fluids. It wasn’t satisfied with that morning’s orange juice and extra
cup of coffee. It scoured my body for pools of liquid it had overlooked
in the past, finding, among other things, several ounces of beer that
had lingered undetected in a dark corner since a keg party one Saturday
night October 1969.
The vague urge I had experienced as I sped past the rest area, and which
had been extreme discomfort only a moment ago, was now excruciating
pain. I was trapped in my car. I removed my seat belt, I unbuckled my
belt, and I unbuttoned my trousers, but the bloated bladder kept
expanding to fill the available space. And like the traffic, time had
come to a standstill. The seconds were like months, the minutes like
decades and the radio newscast lasted longer than the Jurassic Period,
which gave rise to thoughts of mass extinctions, which led to thoughts
of my extinction. The scene seemed real. The lights of the emergency
vehicles were flashing and an EMT opened my car door and looked in.
“Oh, Frank, this is horrible,” a young guy, who shaved once a week,
although he didn’t need to, said. “I think I’m going to be sick. Please
don’t look, Frank. There’s nothing we can do for him.”
Frank, the wise, irascible thirty-year veteran with an acid tongue and a
heart of gold, pushed his partner aside and peered in at my lifeless
body.
“Ah, Kid, this must be your first bladder explosion.” Frank said with a
knowing smile. “Bladders explode all the time, Kid. You’re going to see
three or four of these a week for the rest of your life. And I’ll tell
you what, Kid, this one ain’t nothing. As bladder explosions go, this
guy’s was a cap pistol. They still had cap pistols when you was a kid,
didn’t they Kid? Don’t worry, Kid, you’ll get used to it.”
Frank and The Kid worked with boring efficiency until they were knocked
to the ground by the shock wave from what sounded like a nuclear bomb
going off.
“Oh my God, Frank, it’s a terrorist attack!”
“Settle down, Kid,” Frank said as he helped his partner to his feet.
“I’ve got a pretty good idea what that was, and it wasn’t no terrorist
attack, Kid. You finish up here while I go back and take a look.”
The rookie was supposed to gather and stow the equipment, but the sight
of me in my post-kablooey state was too much for him. He looked at me,
then turned away and a moment later looked again. And as he looked at
me, I could see deep lines being etched on his face and his hair turning
grey. When Frank got back, he didn’t seem to notice that his partner had
aged thirty years in five minutes.
“Now, that was a bladder explosion worth remembering,” Frank said as he
slapped The Kid on the back. “Like I told you, this guy ain’t nothing.
You gotta go back there and see what a real bladder explosion looks
like.”
Reluctantly, The Kid went to take a look. Twenty minutes later, he
returned looking youthful, confidant, invigorated.
“What did I tell you, Kid?” Frank said.
“You were so right, Frank. Thanks for sending me back there. This guy,”
The Kid said, pointing at me. “This guy is just so like another day at
the office, Frank. I hope his life wasn’t as boring as his death, if you
know what I mean.”
“It’s hard to say, Kid, but I bet it was.”
That would be just like me, I thought, to die in some remarkably mundane
way after living a remarkably mundane life. Then traffic began to move,
I returned to reality and another mundane day unfolded.
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The
Slang Gods Have Spoken
By
Virginia Jacobson,
Arizona
The written language is the benchmark of
whether a civilization is considered to be intelligent or not. If
archeologists can’t find a written record left behind, an extinct
society is often deemed “primitive” or “less developed intellectually.”
What did these drawings really mean? Was this an outhouse or a temple?
We just don’t know. We could compare it to someone 1,000 years from now
finding the installation sheet for a piece of my cheap press board
furniture (okay, bad example, no one can understand those).
The point is, communication should unite - not divide us. (Everybody
hold hands now.) Koombaya.
Not so fast amigo. Add the generational barrier to the geographical
barrier and things get really hairy.
Take slang, as an example. In one fell swoop, slang sets the pre-adult
generation apart as the most modern and popular (“Hip”, “Cool”, or “In”
as my generation would have said). And at the same time it ensures the
generation gap will always exist.
This confusion also applies in reverse. Read a 100 year old book and
you’ll be asking:
What the heck does all-overish mean? What about Boodle? Having a brick
in your hat? Didoes? Gallnipper? Honey-fuggled? Smile? (Not what you’d
think) Hooter? (Definitely not what you think).
And doesn’t it really bug you when the author slips in a few lines in a
foreign language - but there’s no secret decoder ring?
To make matters worse, the human brain can only absorb about 2 decades
of slang. I know this to be true because I am 46 and have been
“clueless” for some time now. (50 to 100 years ago, I would have been
“adrift”.)
And don’t think you can fake it to fit in, either. If you are over 40,
the speaking apparatus just can not form the current slang sounds in
such a way as to sound anything but stupid. It’s the law of the Slang
Gods.
Don’t despair! Maybe we can’t use the new words, but all we have to do
to stay current is use a different tone or inflection on an existing
word. Presto-chango - a snotty new slang word is born! Two examples of
words that have been around forever but have continued to evolve are:
“really” and “seriously”.
1950 – “Really” meant: “Is that really true? Tell me more.”
1990 – “Really” progressed to: “You’re stupid.” (Said sarcastically
without a question mark.)
Today, “Really” means: “Not really.” (Very pronounced question mark, as
if what you’re hearing is too dumb to believe.)
Seriously. (See “Really”)
It’s difficult for us older folks to keep up with all the nuances. My
husband is a good example. He told me he was going to spend his day off
cleaning the garage. I thought it made more sense to put up the blinds,
towel bars and light fixtures we had been stock piling for the past
year. We seem to be good at shopping but “not so much” on installing.
My response was - “Really?”
Did you hear it? Here- I’ll say it again-
“Really?”
I actually said that twice to him- in just that special “tone”.
And he completely did not get it. Each time he cheerfully replied “yes”,
and went on to explain his plan.
Now, after using the “tone” twice, I had to let it go. If a tone is not
picked up on twice in a row, it expires.
It occurred to me that my 49 year old husband must have reached some
invisible tone barrier the Slang Gods have imposed. He can’t really be
held accountable, so I chose to “shut-pan.”
What started out for me as “Really” (not really), became “Really” as in
“Tell me more.” (By the way honey, the garage looks great!)
If you’re my age, and all this seems unfair - don’t worry. Some day
these “young whipper-snappers” will be old and their speech will be out
of date. Slang is the universal humbler.
Okay, here’s the secret decoder ring-
All overish- uncomfortable
Boodle- a group of people
Having a brick in your hat- being drunk
Dideoes- causing mischief
Gallnipper- a large mosquito
Honey-fuggled- to cheat or fool someone
Smile- a drink, or to take a drink (Hmmmm, the progression makes sense.
Now we smile after we take a drink.)
Hooter- a tiny amount (Opposite of the modern expression “Would you take
a look at those...”)
And finally, I’ll end by doing this:
Shut-pan
http://selmablogbeck.blogspot.com
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Phraseology
By
Tripp Maxwell,
Georgia
Here are some phrases commonly used by
people that often mean something entirely different:
1. I hate to tell you I told you so. Real meaning: I’m going to love
every minute of this.
2. Does this outfit make me look fat? Real meaning: I don’t think it
does, so you better not either.
3. I’ll call you tomorrow (after a date). Real meaning: Only if I found
you interesting and/or attractive, otherwise you’ll never hear from me
again and I might even change my number if you have it.
4. It’s not you, it’s me. Real meaning: Of course it’s you, what else
could it be?
5. What a beautiful baby. Real meaning: All babies look about the same.
I’m just being nice.
6. Would you like to see photos of my vacation and/or grandchildren?
Real meaning: My vacation and/or grandchildren are better than yours,
want to see?
7. Is this bothering you? Real meaning: Please ask me what I’m doing.
8. Do you mind if I…..? Real meaning: I don’t really care if you do
mind, I’m just being nice.
9. I do. Real meaning: Dear God I hope this works out, but if it doesn’t
can I get a do-over?
10. Do you mind if I borrow that? Real meaning: I know you can’t refuse
without harming the friendship, so I’m taking advantage of that.
http://tmax11.blogspot.com
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Happiness
Planning
By
Debbie Simorte,
Missouri
My friend Kelly once found herself so
overloaded with activities and all the usual stuff – work, children,
volunteering, kitchen gadget parties – that she narrowly escaped needing
a two-week beach getaway. She knew it was time for change after a
coworker asked if she might cover a shift, because her father was dying
and she needed time off. Kelly, usually kind and generous, leaned in
close to the distraught woman and said “NO! If I do one more thing I’m
going to have a breakdown.”
After recovery from the breakdown she had due to saying that, Kelly
learned to say no graciously, and now when necessary for her to do so,
her husband reminds her “It’s not like their loved one is dying or
something.”
While many of us are socially overloaded and trying to find ways to say
no before snapping, I, for one, am searching for more groups to join.
I’ll tell you why. Good Morning America recently reported that adding
just one group activity that requires leaving your house, even if only
once per month, increases your happiness level as much as doubling your
annual salary.
I am not greedy. I figure three new group activities per month will be
sufficient, giving me plenty of happiness to bank, with some left over
for helping out the kid and some for donating to folks less fortunate –
the groupless.
All that potential joy is great but happiness bucks won’t put food on
the table and gas in the tank, so I plan to join groups right here in my
neighborhood so I can snack at home, then walk.
So what groups to join? I briefly considered the runners group, but my
homeowners’ association does not allow lawn mowers, barbeque grills,
trashcans or middle aged women in Spandex to be within view. From
anywhere. That and the fact that I’m a little bit nervous about the
bobcat I regularly see near the exercise trail. And I don’t run.
I could join a homeowners’ association committee –maybe the one that
walks around noting the addresses of all of our rebel neighbors who dare
to leave their grills outdoors. Or I could start up a new committee –
the Car Committee – and propose changing the bylaws to require keeping
all vehicles out of view. It’s fun to imagine 300 homeowners trying to
balance their trashcans on top of their grills, on top of their
lawnmowers so they can also hide their cars in the garage.
Seriously, I don’t think a homeowners’ group would add much happiness to
my bank, but the report didn’t say anything about the necessity of the
group being fun.
Maybe I’ll join one of those dinner clubs where the gang prepares enough
food to feed France and then you divvy everything up and take container
after container of deliciousness home and eat leftovers until time for
the next fry-fest. Yes, this sounds good. It would sound better if I
liked cooking.
Pondering all the options is so exhausting. I feel like someone has made
unauthorized withdrawals from my happiness bank. So I’m going to join
one group only and try to get by on less.
Or who knows? Maybe the Wine Tasters can meet weekly. We’ll be the
happiest group in the hood.
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They
Walk Among Us
By
Karla Telega, South
Carolina
This is to document my year working deep
cover in the notorious band of hooligans and scofflaws known as the Red
Hat Society. The facts of this report, while disturbing, are a total
fabrication. The names were changed to protect the innocent.
My first contact with the gang was through the sergeant of arms for the
local chapter of the society. I met Agnes while she was on work-release
from the Shady Grove Retirement Center and Correctional Facility. Our
clandestine meeting took place in an undisclosed park where she was
picking up litter.
Agnes had been serving time for public intoxication and indecent
exposure. Her sentence had been extended after she reportedly bludgeoned
one of the prison orderlies with a fruitcake last Christmas. As she
explained it to me, she showed no sign of remorse for this heinous act.
She set up a meeting with the chapter queen after carefully grilling me
about my age and sexual preference (in the bedroom with the lights out).
The Red Hats are composed mainly of women ages 50 and above. They wear
gang colors of red and purple, and have been known to frequent IHOPs.
Before I could wear the colors I had to undergo a rigorous initiation. I
was asked to be the wheel man for a drive-by egging of tour busses in
Orlando, Florida. This was followed by a trip to Disney World, where I
was forced to go on the It’s a Small World ride three times. Oh, the
humanity!
Once I was in, I ingratiated my way into writing the monthly newsletter
for the chapter. As the gang secretary I began to receive advance notice
of all the sock hops, white elephant sales, and turf wars with
neighboring chapters. I became known for my signature red hard hat and
purple boa.
One of the extreme dangers of undercover work is becoming so consumed by
the role as to lose one’s identity. I bought a pink Cadillac from a
retired Mary Kay consultant and began driving ten miles per hour under
the speed limit wherever I went, terrorizing other motorists by coming
to a complete stop to make a right hand turn and leaving my blinkers on
for miles after changing lanes.
After I left the gang and returned to active duty, I continued to eat
dinner at 4:00 PM and carry a coin purse to count out exact change at
the supermarket. I lied about my age so I could order off the senior
menu. I’ve stolen sugar packets, and I’m ashamed to say that I’ve left
the sprinkler on all night on more than one occasion.
I have had to come to terms with my own demons. I still spend many a
sleepless night, popping antacids and watching old John Wayne westerns.
I do scrapbooking in my spare time.
My efforts to shut down the organization have proven futile, as new
chapters continue to spring up with alarming speed. When not wearing
their colors, these women walk among us unnoticed, blending into
society. If a woman on the bus starts showing you pictures of her
granddaughter, who graduated with honors, or talks incessantly about her
hip surgery, run for the nearest exit, or you too might become a victim
of their senseless violence.
Would you like to stop by for some tea and fruitcake?
http://telegatales.com/wordpress
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M-m-manatee
at the Door
By
Mary Tompsett,
Wisconsin
I fell hard, and fast. Okay, so the
relationship hasn’t been a lasting soul-mate love. But, man oh man, what
a “melt your toenails” affair! Firm, sensuous contours bulging under
soft, tight leather—ooh, baby! We met while riding together in my friend
Bob’s new car. For several months, every embrace has given warmth and
meaning to my life. But the magic is gone. After all, it’s spring—who
the hell needs a heated car seat?!?
Rousting my self-pity, I sent a few bucks to a manatee rescue
operation—to help pay for the usual algae snacks, nose jobs, and hair
plugs. Perhaps I misunderstood the group’s definition of “adoption,” for
I received the following response.
Thank you for your donation and willingness to adopt a young manatee!
These marine creatures live up to 60 years, and your long-term
commitment will enable a deserving manatee to prance from deprivation
into a full, enriched life.
Your manatee’s name is George. Normally, we include a photo and bio with
this letter, but George is already enroute to you! He would smile if he
could. His unusual mouth parts make smiling impossible, but thanks to
you, plastic surgery may be in his future. To facilitate his adjustment
to living with a commoner, please note the following information.
YOUR MANATEE: Some assembly required. Haha, just jerking your chain.
Little Georgie will arrive fully assembled, and his half-ton, 13-foot
body needs only your LOVE! Actually, a front-end loader would be real
handy too. How else will he get from the UPS truck into your swimming
pool? Fly?? If you don’t have a pool or pond, you will be tempted to
make do by hauling an old bathtub into the garage. You are truly
pathetic.
Speaking of pools, you can avert the nasty business of clogged filters
if you litter-train your manatee. It’s simple! Just empty that extra
bedroom, line it with a 12x14-foot OSHA-approved vinyl shell, fill with
gravel, and scoop daily! To help with this expense, we’ve enclosed a
discount coupon for a box of baking soda.
Your manatee is hairless and doesn’t shed. So don’t fret about costly
perms, weaves or the dreadlocks so popular now among aquatic mammals.
But you can always show your love with an open wallet! Manatees swim at
birth, but if George takes a shine to synchronized swimming, do plan on
shelling out a few nickels for team costumes and glitter makeup.
Manatees communicate with body language and a variety of squeaks and
squeals. George is very special, and descended from royal blood lines.
However, he struggles with a daunting social handicap—stuttering.
Poseidon be praised, this impediment is rare among manatees! George’s
daily speech therapy should include singing, jiggling his funny lips,
and cursing with a British accent.
Communication skills will soar if you both learn American Sign Language.
George will find this physically difficult because he has three-toed
flippers. Of course, we don’t have a clue what your flimsy excuse will
be. Anyway, he has three toes, so think before blurting, “Dude, gimme
five!” Improving George’s vocalizations and confidence will require your
total, unwavering commitment. Oh, and credit cards.
When transporting your manatee to speech therapy, sign language classes,
or the occasional Weight Watcher meeting, a typical car seat may be
inadequate. Quit whining, it’s not always about you, okay? Invest in a
flat-bed trailer; the enclosed brochure details easy payment options.
Manatees have excellent hearing, but cannot turn their heads sideways.
Thus, your manatee may appear to ignore your commands to sit, wear a
bathing cap, or “show mama that li’l jelly belly.” In all likelihood,
however, he is indeed ignoring you.
With your encouragement, George might even pursue a career in law
enforcement. It’s true! Thousands of adopted manatees proudly serve our
communities in elite mounted police units.
So, start saving—-a custom saddle the size of a loveseat will set you
back some.
www.marytompsett.com
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Dog
(Door) Bites Man
By
George Waters,
California
It began, as so many things in life do,
with the dog.
He has been with us for three years, roughly 1,000 days, and in those
1,000 days I have gotten up from the couch to either let him outdoors,
or answer his whiny scratching to let him in, approximately
4,753,961,500 times.
Not long after we brought him home, I decided to put in a doggie door,
and I totally would have, if not for the triple-P.
No, that is not a bladder-relieving trick I taught him to impress the
neighbors. The three P's are perfectionism, procrastination and
paralysis. (Hello darkness, my old friend).
I wanted to put in a doggie door. I did. But then I realized that the
kitchen door was such a thin piece of junk I should really replace the
door first (perfectionism).
Where do I get a door? Is it a standard size? (No way. Nothing in this
house is standard. I swear the guy who built it himself in the 1920s
found the windows and doors, no two alike, from a salvage yard and built
the house to fit them). So a door would require precise measurements and
research and money (procrastination).
And when is there ever a good time to research sizes and prices on a
custom door just to let the dog go out unassisted? Never. (Paralysis).
Flash forward three years and here I sit, new-door-less and
doggie-door-less.
Then I had a rare adult insight. I realized that in order to vanquish
the three P's, you only have to slay the first one. How? You buy a
doggie door. You install it in the crappy kitchen door, which you are
never going to replace with a better door, ever, because you know you.
So I did.
Adios, P. There's a new sheriff in town, P, and it is I.
So friends, if you find yourself with a similar problem, here are my
steps for installing a doggie door:
Give up your fantasy of the perfect kitchen door, or even one which
actually stays closed or keeps out the winter drafts. It is not to be.
Peruse the various doggie doors at the hardware store. Since you have a
small dog, buy the "small."
Measure your dog, like you should have done in the first place. Your dog
is small, yes, but the "small" door must be for freaking ferrets.
Return the small to the hardware store and buy the medium.
Remove your kitchen door and place it in the driveway horizontally on
two sawhorses.
Ha! Like you have two sawhorses.
Lean the door against your patio table then.
Get out the jigsaw.
Ha! Like you have a jigsaw.
Get out the circular saw. (This is no longer going to be a "finesse"
job).
Trace the outline of the doggie door on your door.
Fire up the circular saw and attempt to keep its bucking blade even
remotely within the confines of your pencil marks.
Fail.
Now that what you have is not so much a doggie door hole as it is an
emergency fire exit, get out an ice-cold beer.
Place it against your forehead with your eyes closed, and mutter things
which cause your wife to rush the children to the neighbors to play.
Go back to the hardware store, return the medium doggie door and buy the
large.
Install the large and re-hang the kitchen door.
Using doggie treats, train your dog to push open the rubber flap and
exit the house.
Fail. Your dog hates the smell of rubber flaps and now will no longer
get within 50 feet of the door.
Get a cat.
www.TheWaBlog.com
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Just
A Name
By
Fiona Young-Brown,
Kentucky
Growing up in a coastal town in southern
England, I lived opposite two elderly ladies with delightfully Beatrix
Potter-esque names: Mrs. Woodcock and Mrs. Titmouse.
When it comes to unusual names, we Brits have quite a colorful history.
Many have heard of our odd names for places (Buttocks Point, Horsey
Windpump obviously have great futures as tourist destinations) and
strange cuisine (Spotted Dick, anyone?) but some of the names in census
records are equally colorful and a lot more embarrassing. Need an
example? I was delivered by a Dr. Slasher, as was my cousin, Dick Pain.
You can move house, but you’re stuck with your name, at least until
you’re old enough to change it legally.
My best friend at school was named Single and, since I was named Young,
we fielded the inevitable question about Free. However, that pales in
comparison to my classmates with the last names Alcock and Rijsdijk. I’m
sure I don’t need to go into detail about the various bastardizations
the poor girls faced during their teen years. If those seem difficult to
live with, spare a thought for poor baby Chlamydia. When asked why she
had chosen the name, the infant’s mother replied that she had no idea
what it meant but had seen it on a hospital leaflet and thought it
sounded pretty.
A look at the British census records for the past few centuries reveal
that silly names are by no means a recent development. Author Russell
Ash has published several collections of quirky nomenclatures, gathered
from archives and church documents. Among my favorites: Anice Bottom
(baptized in 1837), Kitty Litter (born in 1839), Gusty Sandbag (born
1853), and Fanny Warmer (born 1862). Compared to these, Sensitive
Redhead and Batty Treasure seem quite tame, as does Ray of Sunshine
O’Leary, the delightfully cheerful name of a girl at my first workplace.
Then there are the names that are notable, simply for being an exercise
in tongue dynamics: Fartamalus clearly never caught on as a popular
name, neither did One Too Many, as in One Too Many Gouldstone. Others
perhaps illustrated their parents’ thoughts at the time of birth; one
imagines that Not Wanted Colvill may have grown up with a few issues.
Some names are wonderfully quaint (Amorous Swan and Mary Xmas) while
others are perfectly innocent until paired with an equally innocent
surname. Sue is not that uncommon, but Sue Age may well have faced
classroom taunts. Ellie is still en vogue but did Ms Fant’s parents
consider the snickers her name might induce?
Sadly, some names have proved too embarrassing over time. The Smellies
and Handcocks of the nation are dying out, some from natural causes
(daughters changing their names upon marriage) and others through more
active means (Mr. Willy may have chosen to become the more sedate Mr.
Wilson). As a result, many of these names are now lost in the branches
of a family tree. However, when a friend recently called to gush about
her new boyfriend, she expressed some concern that people might laugh at
his name. I told her the young Harry Ramsbottom had nothing to fear from
me. Ah – as long as the Ramsbottoms and Chlamydias of the world are
around, there is still hope!
www.fionayoungbrown.com
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